(This is your brain on the box...)

Walking out of Mind Games, talking about role-playing rules and card games, wearing cammo pants and a Rammstein T-shirt, I suddenly realised I was a walking cliche. Even if of the wrong gender.

Mind you, a block further on, we were neck-deep in cheerleader-speak, so I suppose I'm subverting the paradigm enough.

We have guests. Lots of guests. Not as many as we thought we might have at one point, when a drunken Friday-night phone call to a housewarming party spiralled out of control, and it seemed John would be driving down from Canberra with a carload of females to visit us.

The females piked. John flew.

But I can't communicate how great it is. Lounging around talking shit, drinking coffee. Heading out to the goff club to drink, dance, make fun and admire, and watch the Vampire schlock films, demanding more cleavage and fangs (or, if you prefer, tits and teeth). Shopping with two guys apparently determined to bankrupt themselves before the weekend's out. Even if in one store I felt I should be wearing a shirt that said: "I'm not their fag-hag."

The only way it could have been better was if the females had come down with John. But we'll entertain them another time. There's plenty of time, and I'm feeling very sunny about it all.